If the predictions were right, a wall of wind and water was curling toward them from the Barents Sea, and they had maybe thirty-six hours before it slammed into the ice. They would fish fast, load deep, and run like hell. That was the plan.
Elias adjusted his hood and raised the binoculars. The ice floes were starting to close again, moving with an invisible tide. The wind had changed. He scanned left to right slowly. Then stopped. “Henrik,” he said.